


somehow, he chose well

by imaginarykat



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed Multiplayer - Fandom
Genre: M/M, the animus database entries made me do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarykat/pseuds/imaginarykat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Charlie's endless chattering was what led him to the Comte de Marigot, who, not knowing what else to do with him, introduced him to the Templar order.] -- ACMP Animus Database</p>
            </blockquote>





	somehow, he chose well

**Author's Note:**

> [ORIGINALLY POSTED ON [TUMBLR](http://imaginaryanon.tumblr.com/post/128719973938/somehow-he-chose-well-alphonsecharlie)]

It was Kumi who first introduced the boy to him.

(Well, it wasn't exactly an introduction. The Mercenary brought the boy to his door and then immediately excused himself and left. That should've raised his suspicions.)

Apparently the boy hid aboard a ship headed for the New World in a barrel full of apples and somehow managed to survive the trip. He spent two or three years begging and stealing his way through the streets of Kingston, but when he saw the red sails of _The Magnificence_ docked in the port, he decided it was time to leave the city. Young and cocky, once he found his way onto the ship, he refused to leave. Kumi, amused by his brash self-confidence, allowed him to stay. The boy sailed with his crew for a time, but on the open sea his endless chattering could get unbearable pretty quick.

That is what Alphonse finds out after spending all of ten minutes with the boy; he also gains a very in-depth understanding of the phrase "endless chattering".

"Mon Dieu. Would you please... stop talking for a few seconds," Alphonse says, massaging his temples. He can already feel an incoming headache. "You said your name was...?"

"Didn't say yet. It's Charlie. Charlie Oliver. Charlie the Great. They started callin' me that back at Kingston when I robbed this one noble—"

"Yes, that's quite enough—"

"You look like a noble, too. Are ya? That noble I robbed back then kinda looked like you, except all different. Didn't have the hair. Is that your hair? Why is it grey? You're not that old."

Comte de Marigot resists the urge to hide his face in hands. Instead, he straightens his back and leans forward over the table, trying to make himself look more intimidating.

"I said enough."

That shuts the boy up, though he suspects the blissful silence won't last long.

"First of all, I am not one of your thieving street friends. I am the Comte Alphonse de Marigot of Martinique and you will address me as such. Second of all—"

"Comt- what?" Charlie laughs. "I can't say that. Also—"

"Second of all," Alphonse continues, raising his voice slightly and glaring at the boy, "you will not interrupt me when I'm talking. You will treat me with respect suitable for a person of my standing. Third of all, you will behave accordingly and do what I say."

He keeps talking, his eyes fixed on the boy. Charlie's quiet, at least for the moment, and seems to be genuinely fascinated by his words. Alphonse can't say he's not pleased. His first impression was that it would take much more time for the boy to recognise his authority. Being a part of Kumi's crew must've taught Charlie some discipline.

When Comte de Marigot's finished with his litany of rules and directions, Charlie gets himself a chair, drags it to the table and sits down, already opening his mouth to say something.

"When in my private rooms, you will ask permission before sitting down," Alphonse says swiftly before the boy has a chance to speak.

"What? You're joking, right?"

Alphonse raises an eyebrow. "Do I look as if I am?"

The boy tilts his head and stares at him blankly for a few seconds, then hesitantly stands up. Alphonse's feels his mouth twitch in the briefest of smiles before he nods. Charlie huffs and falls back into the chair, then proceeds to fall off it in one steady motion.

He's got a lot of work ahead of him, Alphonse thinks, watching the boy clumsily get up. At least it sure won't get dull quickly.

"So what do I call ya?" Charlie asks as soon as he's off the floor and back in the chair.

"I've told you already. Comte Alphonse de Marigot, of Martinique. Comte de Marigot would suffice as well, I suppose."

"Com... Comt... de what? Of what?"

Alphonse rolls his eyes. Patience. He's going to need a lot of patience.

"Comte de Marigot," he says, as slowly as he can, uttering every sound with extraordinary care. He sees only confusion and fear of the unknown in the boy's eyes, and he sighs deeply. "Come on, repeat after me: Comte Alphonse de Marigot."

After several attempts it becomes abundantly clear that Charlie simply isn't capable of saying his name correctly. It seems as if he thinks it hilarious, too: the more exasperated Alphonse's expression is, the more the boy beams with satisfaction.

"Sir," he finally says, his tone resigned. "You will address me as 'sir'. If you learn to say my name as it is meant to be said, you might use that. But for now, 'sir' it is. Is this clear?"

"Yes," Charlie says, the impish smile on his face so big Alphonse practically feels offended.

"'Yes' what?"

"Yes, sir," the boy corrects himself immediately.

* * *

It is as if the boy is allergic to the French language. He butchers the words and the accent to the point where even Alphonse cannot decipher what he meant to say. He forgets words, mixes them up, mispronounces them so bad he ends up with words in a wholly different language. Alphonse's fairly sure the little shit's doing it all on purpose.

Each word takes the boy more than ten attempts to get it right, and everything seems to escape his memory afterwards; Alphonse dreads to think what would happen if he tried forming whole sentences.

Charlie evidently has no talent for languages. Even his English leaves a lot to be desired: he's lazy and careless in his speech, and doesn't bother to pronounce the more difficult words correctly. A curious thing, considering just how eager he is to talk.

He's talking right now, too, idly sprawled on Alphonse's couch. Alphonse isn't really listening, his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. He's only marginally aware that Charlie's in the room with him, yet the boy's presence brings him a strange kind of comfort, his chattering a welcome background noise.

Now that he's taught the boy some basic manners and established a set of rules Charlie's surprisingly eager to follow, Alphonse's starting to genuinely like the boy's company. Charlie's quick and witty, cleverer than he may initially seem, confident in the way only young people can be. He loves everything bright and colourful and noisy, and he is all of those things, too. He's exceptionally skilful when it comes to stealing, and often brings Alphonse his loot, showing off and seeking approval. The Comte de Marigot just shakes his head and accepts whatever little trinkets Charlie's managed to pilfer from the pirates of Portobelo.

Sometimes, the little presents turn out to have owners who aren’t too happy about having their things stolen. Sometimes, avoiding trouble involves a degree of hiding in the most ridiculous of places, including haystacks. Alphonse can't quite bring himself to be angry at the boy; instead, he finds himself giggling like a child while Charlie spins impossible stories, whispers them into his ear.

He keeps finding hay in his clothes for _days_.

* * *

Alphonse has to divide his time between Portobelo and Martinique. Every now and then he spends a month managing his plantation; mostly it all runs smoothly without his supervision, but a man can never be too careful. He always leaves Charlie behind.

Charlie’s a member of the crew of _The Magnificence_ , and so Kumi takes the boy on some of his journeys. Alphonse reluctantly allows it. He doesn't have the heart to tell the boy 'no' when he comes asking, bright-eyed, excited.

They both have responsibilities they cannot ignore, and so they end up spending significantly less time together than Alphonse'd like. He doesn't see Charlie for weeks, sometimes months, and he's surprised to find out just how much he misses the boy, his ridiculous stories and lopsided smile. Everything seems awfully quiet without him.

It's the main reason why Alphonse embarks on _The Magnificence_ a few times. He tells Berko that he doesn't want to forget the sea, which, he soon realises, isn't a lie in itself. Travelling with Kumi's crew is enjoyable, even if they are a rather... curious assemblage. They accept him as one of their own without question, though.

Somehow, watching Charlie race Adrien and Sylvia up the rigging while Kumi tells tales of seafaring and piracy feels like home.

* * *

Alphonse decides to get the boy a decent weapon. Stealing, while certainly useful, won't save his life in a fight, and it's the least he can do anyway. When he asks Charlie what kind of weapon he'd prefer, the boy's eyes instantly light up with excitement.

"Something loud and quick, sir. Something that goes 'boom'."

Comte de Marigot arches a brow at him. "That's not very specific, you know," he observes, amused.

"I mean a pistol, sir. The one I stole from Kumi's booty doesn't work that well any more and-"

"You stole a pistol? From Berko?"

Charlie looks down and away, his cheeks slightly redder than a second ago. He already knows most of the Templars of Portobelo pretty well, and Alphonse did explicitly forbid him to steal from them.

"Well, that was... It was back when I travelled with him. Before..."

Alphonse shakes his head and smiles.

"You want it to be explosive, do you? Well have I got the man for you."

~

Flint grins at the boy excitedly and ruffles his hair.

"You want it to go 'boom'? Truly a young man after my own heart," he laughs. "I think I might have some ideas already. Oh, this is going to be great."

"Fair warning, Flint," Alphonse says from across the room, his mouth slightly upturned, "if you give him a literal cannon, I'll tell William to leave you on some île déserte the next time you set out, and you know he'll do it."

"Worry not, dear Dandy. You know I'm a responsible inventor."

Alphonse laughs. "I know you're everything but responsible, Flint. Get out of my room. Take the boy and work out the details of... whatever it is that you're going to make for him." He waves a hand at them, dismissing them both.

He hears Charlie breathlessly say something about explosions before they close the door behind them.

~

The pistol Flint makes for Charlie might just be louder than a cannon. Charlie's overjoyed. Alphonse's significantly less so. Flint's nowhere to be found for a solid week, and when he finally resurfaces, his smile is easily the most arrogantly smug thing Alphonse has ever seen in his life.

* * *

"What is this monstrosity on your head?"

Charlie freezes on the threshold of his room and slowly blinks at Alphonse, bewildered. "It's... it's a hat, sir."

"Where did you get it? It's hideous."

"It's just a hat. Nothin' fancy, sure, but sits right on me head. Everyone else had one! Lady Black's even has feathers on it, but she's too careful and I can't get 'em."

Alphonse takes a deep breath. The boy's going to be the death of him.

"First of all, what did I say about stealing from my friends? Second of all, please get rid of this misshapen thing immediately. It's... rather unpleasant to look at."

Charlie rolls his eyes. "It's just a hat," he mutters, but obediently takes the hat off, then throws it out the window. Well, that's certainly one way of doing it. Alphonse sighs.

"There, there, don't be angry. I'm sure we can find you a better one."

Charlie shrugs and crosses his arms on his chest. Alphonse can tell he's upset, but waits patiently. The boy never stays resentful for long, and indeed it only takes him a few minutes to find his way back to Alphonse's couch, where he buries himself in pillows. He doesn't talk much for the rest of the evening, though.

The Comte de Marigot is surprised to discover that he feels guilty.

~

A few days later Alphonse gifts him a brand new hat, black and classy, with simple silver embellishments. It stands in stark contrast to the rest of Charlie's mismatched clothes and possessions, but Alphonse thinks it somehow fits him. The boy wears it with a proud smile.

* * *

He doesn't know when he starts calling the boy affectionate names. The "my dears" and "mon chers" sneak their way into his speech when he's not paying attention, and they roll off his tongue just as easily as the boy's name. Charlie doesn't seem to mind.

The boy's finally learned to pronounce Alphonse's name, yet keeps calling him 'sir'. Alphonse can see his own fondness reflected in the boy's eyes, but Charlie stays respectful. He's taught him well.

* * *

The silver ring with the Templar cross fits him, too.

* * *

There are lazy afternoons in Portobelo when nobody considers going outside lest the heat should kill them. Alphonse loves those moments; even all the pirates get so tired of the temperature that they stop their endless arguments and fights to rest quietly.

He's in his room, looking through some maps that Kumi left for him. Charlie's sitting at the foot of his armchair, leaning against his legs.

"So I was thinkin'," the boy says, "maybe you should agree to go to Palenque. I know you don't like leaving civilization, sir, but maybe-"

Alphonse practically shudders. "Alfie," he blurts out. To hell with it.

Charlie twists his neck to look at him. "What?"

Alphonse takes a deep breath and runs a hand through the boy's hair, an easy, honest gesture, as natural as breathing. "When we're by ourselves... if you want, you can call me Alfie. You'll still address me as 'sir' in the presence of other people, but when it's just you and me..."

"Alfie," Charlie says, still staring at him. The confusion in his eyes changes into something different, something Alphonse can't quite find a name for. "Alfie."

Alphonse hates his name with a burning passion, he’s always hated it. He got rid of it as soon as he had the chance, left it behind along with his lineage, buried the memory deep. He truly is the Comte Alphonse de Marigot. Yet when Charlie calls him Alfie, a soft curiosity in his voice, he doesn't mind at all. He pets the boy's head lovingly.

Charlie repeats his name once again, very quietly, very carefully, then rests his head against Alphonse’s legs again.

They don't talk for the rest of the afternoon. Charlie seems to be comfortable with silence for the first time in his life.

* * *

Alphonse would never have expected to fall for a stowaway pirate boy with mischievous eyes and no manners to speak of.

Yet, when a few weeks later Charlie climbs into his lap with a smile brighter than the sun and kisses him, he thinks that somehow, he chose well.


End file.
